


one of them is how bad i need you

by moogle62



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Aftercare, First Time, Intimacy, M/M, Rimming, Subdrop, Vulnerability, White House era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-24 07:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14350527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: “I, uh,” Lovett says again. He’s going redder, steadily, all up his neck. He needs a shave, Tommy thinks, detached. He’s got stubble growing in. “Look, can I -- if I ask you something, can you just -- do it? No questions?”





	one of them is how bad i need you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadtomato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadtomato/gifts).



> Happy Crooked Exchange, sadtomato!! I loved every single part of your letter and I hope this is a good fit for you <3 <3
> 
> A million thank yous to the people that looked this over and gave me notes, and to the mods for running this exchange in the first place and being so sweet when I inevitably needed an extension. Title from Issues by Julia Michaels, which may or may not have been the only song I listened to while writing this.
> 
> Further content warnings in the notes at the end (no archive warnings apply but there are more details there if anyone wants them).
> 
> Keep it secret, keep it safe, etc!

It’s a Saturday, late, and Tommy has been staring at his laptop screen for a good two hours too long now. His eyes feel scratchy. He blinks, and pushes his chair back, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars. God. He needs -- a break; some real sleep. A Sunday off.

The remarks he’s working on can probably wait till the morning, if no later. He can -- he can stop, at least for the night. The apartment is dark and silent outside Tommy’s room: Lovett must still be out

When he reaches for his water glass he finds it empty, so he walks through to the kitchen sink, flipping on the light on his way. He drinks his first glass straight down, and pours another, and that’s when the front door opens.

“Hey, Lovett,” Tommy says. “Good night?”

“Yeah,” says Lovett. His voice sounds weird. Not bad, but off, somehow, in a way that makes Tommy turn to look at him properly. He looks disheveled -- of course he does, Tommy’s brain reminds him, he went out to get fucked; he’d proclaimed it loudly enough that it’ll be ringing in Tommy’s ears for weeks -- and sweaty, his forehead shining, his curls still damp at his hairline. _Rode hard and put away wet_ , Tommy thinks, and immediately regrets it. It’s too easy to picture, too easy to think about Lovett like that, desperate for it. “Yeah, sure, it was a good night, sure.”

Lovett’s kicking out of his shoes, dropping his backpack. He’s not meeting Tommy’s eyes, but that could be anything. Lovett doesn’t always like to make eye contact, not when he’s really feeling something. Maybe -- maybe he just doesn’t want Tommy looking at him right now, the way that he went weird and silent that one time Tommy made a offhand remark about the walls being thin the morning after Lovett had woken up him up by swearing at a speech; the way he shrugs and deflects when someone compliments something that genuinely means a lot to him, cuts too close to the bone.

“You want some water?” Tommy offers, and Lovett snorts. “Diet Coke?”

That one, Lovett takes. “Gonna call it a night,” he says, making for his room. “You can, like, watch sports or whatever. The tv’s yours. Don’t wake me up.”

Tommy is pretty sure he’s never woken Lovett up except when Lovett’s asked him to, but he doesn’t push it. 

Instead, he drinks his second glass of water. He considers, and decides against, starting the dishes. He goes back to his bedroom and does a bunch of push-ups, half-hearted, in an attempt to wear his body out enough to sleep, and he’s just flopped over onto his back, panting, when there’s a knock on his door.

“Yeah?” he calls, still out of breath. Jesus, he’s gotta work on that. 

“I, uh,” Lovett says. He hasn’t come in. “Are you -- sorry --” and that’s enough, the hesitation alone would be enough, to get Tommy on his feet, pulling open the door.

Lovett looks up at him quickly and then away, fidgeting. He’s red-faced, the way he doesn’t often get, and he’s down to a tee-shirt and sweats. 

“Lovett?” Tommy bites back the instinctive _you okay?_ ; Lovett hates that. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I, uh,” Lovett says again. He’s going redder, steadily, all up his neck. He needs a shave, Tommy thinks, detached. He’s got stubble growing in. “Look, can I -- if I ask you something, can you just -- do it? No questions?”

Tommy immediately has questions. Concerns, too, but he can push those away until a better time; he’s gotten plenty good at that, in his job. “Sure,” he says, and means it. He’d do worse for Lovett, for Favs. They all would. “What do you need?”

Lovett sighs, loud. It sounds annoyed, but it doesn’t sound like it’s directed at Tommy. “I need -- ugh, fuck, can you just --” He’s visibly struggling over the words, but Tommy can wait. Lovett came to him. Tommy can wait however long he needs. “Can you just, like -- hold me?”

“Hold you?” Tommy repeats, genuinely just taken aback, and Lovett scowls, flinches away. “Hey, no -- come here, it’s okay. Of course I can.”

Lovett eyes him warily, but acquiesces. He takes a small step towards Tommy, and Tommy steps in to meet him halfway so Lovett doesn’t have to close the whole distance, doesn’t have to make himself that vulnerable. Lovett’s smaller than Tommy expects, every time, and he folds into Tommy’s arms like he fits there, like the space has been waiting for him.

That is not a helpful or productive line of thought. That is the line of thought of a bad person and a bad friend. Tommy swallows and forces himself to be better.

Lovett is still standing stiff, arms down at his side. “Okay?” Tommy checks.

“Yeah,” Lovett says, tightly. “Stop -- talking about it.”

“Whatever you want,” Tommy says, trying to sound mild, and just keeps holding him. 

Tommy is unpracticed but willing to hug people, tries to make it what they need. Neither he nor Lovett are prone to easy physical contact -- albeit Lovett to a greater degree -- but Tommy tries to give it when it’s what someone needs. It’s something he learned from Favs, has been learning since the first day they met and Favs clapped him on the shoulder, instantly friendly in a way that set some of Tommy’s tightly wound nerves at ease, grinning that shy gap-toothed grin. Favs reaches out so easily, as expansive as his big heart. Tommy has been trying to do the same.

Slowly, the tense lines of Lovett’s back ease out. Tommy feels him take a deep breath, his chest rising and falling against Tommy’s front. Tommy runs a hand up his spine, slow, like he would with a skittish dog, giving Lovett time to object, or pull away. When he reaches the base of Lovett’s neck, Lovett’s skin smooth and warm, Lovett sighs out, and gives Tommy more of his weight.

Tommy has to brace himself to take it, unexpected, but takes it all the same. 

“It’s okay,” Tommy says, quietly, because it is. Whatever it is, whatever Lovett doesn’t want to talk about. Lovett takes another deep breath, shuddering. Tommy’s laptop is still open behind him, the bedside light still flickering because the bulb needs changing. Nothing’s different, except Lovett said _I need something_ , and Tommy was there, and gave it. “I’ve got you.”

That’s too far, he thinks, immediately, that’s the line. But -- but Lovett stays where he is, cheek pressed against Tommy’s chest, and brings his arms up too, wrapping them around Tommy’s waist. They sway a little, pressed together in Tommy’s doorway. Lovett keeps breathing, steady and slow.

Tommy can’t see his watch. He can’t see his phone, or the clock next to his bed. He doesn’t have a concrete sense of how much time passes -- long minutes, definitely, maybe not a half hour -- before Lovett clears his throat and pulls back. It’s just the slightest amount, pressure against Tommy’s hold, but Tommy lets him go before he has to ask, before Lovett has to acknowledge it again.

Lovett clears his throat again, looking down at his feet. “I, uh,” he says. “That -- thanks.”

“Any time,” says Tommy inanely. The moment feels fragile, liminal, like if he says the wrong thing in the wrong way it’ll tip out of this bubble they’ve made where Lovett lets Tommy help him and into reality, where Lovett eats the last bagel and yells at Tommy for pointing out that he’s running low on shaving stuff. “Is that - better?” He means, _did I help?_

“Yeah,” Lovett says, and he’s turning to the door, pointing away from Tommy but not actually going anywhere. Tommy’s chest feels cooler where Lovett was just pressed against him. “Yeah, that’s -- yeah.”

“I’m glad,” Tommy says. His voice comes out quiet, pleased, but he can’t help it. Not when Lovett looks softer, somehow, is holding himself less rigid, less tightly wound. Tommy gets a hot, embarrassing rush of pride, feels it burn through his chest, spill pink and obvious all up his cheeks. He did that for Lovett. He made him feel that safe. That good.

“Okay,” Lovett says, a little stronger. “Okay. Uh. Thanks.” He’s heading for the door, not looking back. “‘Night, then,” and then he’s gone, pulling the door closed behind him.

Tommy blinks. “Night,” he says, to the empty room, and takes himself to bed. This -- he can think about this in the morning. Maybe, in the morning, he’ll be able to understand it.

//

Lovett emerges from his room the next morning when Tommy is making coffee, which isn’t unusual. It’s like he’s lured out by the smell, like a cartoon. Tommy always makes extra anyway, ever since he learned that Lovett would drink the leftovers even if they’d gone cold. He should probably worry that he’s enabling Lovett’s caffeine habit, but that ship sailed long ago, for all of them.

Lovett grunts when Tommy pushes a mug at him, curls his hands around it and sits heavily at the kitchen table, an uneven thing they got off Craigslist that they’ve propped the wonky leg up with old copies of the Post since they moved in. Lovett sits with one leg tucked under him, the leg of his boxers riding slightly up, and Tommy can see his pale thigh, the dark hair there, the suggestion of muscle. He looks away.

He takes his own coffee into the bathroom, drinks it between showering and brushing his teeth. It’s a disgusting habit, but it’s a hard one to break; he’s time-conscious now even on his days off. When he emerges, towelling down his hair, Lovett is where he left him, still a rumpled heap of bedhead and an oversized hoodie. It’s Tommy’s hoodie, Tommy realises, now that he’s looking, but that isn’t unusual. Lovett’s laissez-faire approach to housekeeping obviously extends to and beyond doing his laundry.

Tommy pours them both another coffee. Halfway through his second cup, Lovett starts to look a bit more awake, and then, quickly after that, more embarrassed. Tommy doesn’t mention it, doesn’t mention any of it. He’s not going to push. 

Lovett puts his mug down with a decisive-sounding clatter. “Last night,” he says, not looking anywhere near Tommy. “Are you going to, whatever, need to discuss it or can we just go straight into the golden hills of repression?”

Tommy is pretty sure he couldn’t repress that if he wanted to, and he really, really doesn’t. He doesn’t want to forget Lovett trusting him with himself, with something quiet and small he needed in the night. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he says, and Lovett looks visibly relieved, shoulders slumping. “But --”

“--of fucking course--”

“--are you -- did something --” Tommy can’t find the words, can’t find a better way to say it “--did something happen?” 

Lovett scoffs. “All right, Thomas, save your euphemisms, this isn’t a Lifetime special. Nothing _happened_ , not like that.”

Tommy holds up his hands, leaning back in his chair. “All right, okay. Sorry. I just -- I was worried, you know? You’re my friend.” The word sticks in his throat, not encompassing what he means. “Look, whatever it is, is there something I can do? Are you okay?”

“Tommy, it’s really nothing.” Lovett hunches in on himself, picking at the cuffs of his stolen hoodie. “It’s -- look, the guy from last night, he was a shitty lay, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

Tommy really, legitimately, has no idea whether it is. He’s also not sure how those two things correlate. Lovett must have had shitty lays before -- it’s inevitable, surely -- but he’s never come to Tommy like that before. He’s never -- needed that before.

“Honestly, you’d think someone with a fucking Ivy-league degree would have fucking heard of aftercare,” Lovett’s continuing. “It’s not like it’s _difficult_. Hold a guy for a moment if you’ve had him in subspace. If you’ve held a guy down, maybe check in first before you kick him out of your creepy bland apartment. It’s not _rocket_ science, right?”

_If you’ve held a guy down_. Lovett, presumably, being the guy in question, given the way -- the way he asked Tommy to --

“Right” Tommy agrees, faintly. He’s pretty sure he keeps all that off his face.

So Lovett likes to be -- and whoever he slept with didn’t… do it right, afterwards. That’s -- that’s something Tommy knows now. That’s information he has.

Tommy doesn’t know a lot about sex that needs aftercare or about how to give it, but he knows he would. He’d -- if someone trusted him like that, wanted him to hold them down and make them take pleasure, Tommy would be so careful with the person in his hands. So fucking grateful, getting to give someone that kind of release. 

He’s thinking about it, and trying not to look like he’s thinking about it at all: Lovett, panting and pink, wanting someone to hold him down and give him what he needs. He has to shift in his seat, look away. He has the insane urge to find the asshole Lovett went home with last night and shake him, hard. Cold-cock him maybe, clean to the side of his jaw. Tommy’s not punched anyone since college, but the nameless guy that sent Lovett home off-balance and needing -- punching that guy would almost definitely be worth having to explain that to White House officials. 

“Fucking _Jordan_ ,” Lovett says. 

_Jordan_. He even _sounds_ like an asshole. “Yeah,” Tommy says. “Fucking Jordan.”

Tommy can kind of picture him: three-piece suit, the kind of pastel shirt that finance dudes wear and think it makes them cool, not a hair out of place. He probably has an sleezy, easy smile, leveled it at Lovett when he asked to take Lovett home. Jordan works late nights and thinks banking gives him a better opinion of the political landscape than a White House speechwriter would ever have. He’s selfish in bed, and doesn’t have people stay the night. He sends Lovett home unfulfilled and edgy and doesn’t even fucking _notice_ that Lovett -- that Lovett needs -- 

Lovett fidgets, bare foot tapping against the legs of his chair. “Anyway,” he says, “the point is, it’s fine, Tommy. No need to worry.” He knocks back the last of his coffee, fiddles with the empty mug. He’s broadcasting _change the subject_ with his whole fucking body.

Okay. If Lovett doesn’t want to talk about it any more, he doesn’t have to talk about it any more. Tommy can make that happen for him. “So, uh,” Tommy says. “You’re coming to Jon’s for the game later, right?”

Lovett snorts, visibly relaxing. “Am I coming to Jon’s to watch some grown men invest time and emotions in some guys in tiny shorts? Of course I am, Thomas, who do you even think I am.”

He’s got that look like he could be gearing up for an extended opinion on the matter, if Tommy encourages it. Tommy bites back a smile, so fond of this. “Why don’t you tell me, Lovett?” he says, and lets Lovett talk.

//

The next Saturday evening, Lovett is lying face down on their couch, one hand dangling to the floor, clutching his phone. Tommy takes stock of the situation, leaning in the doorway. If anything were wrong, really wrong, Lovett wouldn’t be out here where Tommy could see him. He keeps those things close, gets quieter the worse something gets to him. If Lovett’s out here, draped pointedly across the sagging couch cushions, it’s okay for Tommy to ask.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, the way he would to anyone he knows and likes, easy, light. “How’s it going?”

Lovett groans into the cushions. “Real fucking great. Just fantastic. Thanks for asking.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that.” Tommy nudges at Lovett’s feet, bare and kicked up over the arm of the couch, and Lovett moves them with a sigh, making room for Tommy to sit. Tommy tries not to look at the back of Lovett’s bare thighs, the curve of his ass under his shorts. “What’s up?”

Lovett sighs again, more dramatically. Tommy can feel himself starting to smile, just unbidden. Lovett does that to him, pulls happiness out of him, has done even when Tommy hasn’t thought there’s been any left to find. 

“You wouldn’t understand, Thomas,” Lovett says, in an exaggerated voice, gearing up for a bit. “I’m having desperate people problems. Don’t pretend you can empathise when you wear shirts with collars for fun. You wake up on time. You -- you like _dress shoes_.” Tommy can hear Lovett smiling, even if he can’t see his face,can hear the way Lovett’s joke only works because they both know it’s not true.“Don’t come to me pretending you know what it’s like to be this pathetic, it’s appropriation.”

Tommy thinks about the intimate, middle of the night way he knows where the paint on his bedroom ceiling is cracking, the way he’d cried, a couple weeks ago, when he was tired past the point of cohesion and had spilled coffee on his last clean shirt at work. “Try me,” he says, dry.

Lovett turns his face further into the cushions. He says something, muffled and inaudible.

“You want to give that another shot, buddy?”

“Ugh,” Lovett says, and flops over onto his back, kicking Tommy in the thigh in the process. “Ugh, fuck. I just -- I want a _good_ lay, Tommy, and apparently all I’ve got is --”

“Jordan?” Tommy suggests. His heart is hammering.

“Jordan,” Lovett agrees. “Which might actually be worse than having no options at all. At least no options can’t, like, screw you over instead of just -- you get it, that’s it, you get it.” He groans again and flings an arm over his face, covering his eyes. “I don’t want to have to start a-fucking-gain. I don’t want to go _out_. I just want someone to know what he should be doing with me and just fucking -- hold me down and do it.”

This is -- Tommy could -- could he really --

Jesus, he has to at least say it. 

“You could, uh,” Tommy says, feeling like his face is on fire, “you could just... stay here.”

Lovett sits up, squirming until his back is against the arm of the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest. Tommy can’t read him at all, suddenly, realises it in a rush of adrenaline and apprehension. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Tommy says, trying to hold onto his nerve, “you could do that here. Uh. All of that. Here. With -- with me.” 

A room of reporters seems like nothing compared to this, Lovett, arms folded, staring him down with narrowed eyes. Tommy can feel the sweat prickling down his back.

“Here,” Lovett repeats. “With you.”

“I -- uh, after last weekend, I did some googling and --” Lovett does this to him, makes him inarticulate. Tommy only loses his words when it’s personal, when he’s trying to get something from the deepest part of his chest out into the light. “I wanted to be able to, you know. Do that. The other parts of that. If you wanted to. I wanted to know I could get it right.”

Lovett is sitting straighter now, frowning. It makes him look unhappy, but Tommy knows him better now, knows that Lovett frowns when he concentrates, when his rabbit-fast mind is working something through. “You looked into it? Like, topping stuff” Tommy nods. “For -- like, just because of last weekend?”

Tommy’s got to be honest. “Mostly,” he says. “And partly because it -- the stuff you were talking about, I hadn’t heard anyone talk about it like that before. Uh, that kind of sex, I mean, and, and afterwards. Like it was something other people wanted too.”

“Too?” Oh, fuck, there it is. “Something other people wanted _too_?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. His voice doesn’t really sound like his, like he’s stepped outside himself and someone braver is talking. “I’ve -- I like it. I didn’t know -- I’ve never done anything like that, like, holding someone down properly or whatever. Making them-- knowing they want to take it. I just knew I liked the thought. And I didn’t know that you did too.”

“Well, now you do.” Lovett is eying him carefully, like he’s waiting for something. He looks -- he looks apprehensive, not upset, like there’s an option he’s hoping for and he’s not sure if it’s coming.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, _again_. “Yeah, I do.”

He really does, is the thing. He knows the way Lovett goes loose and quiet in the aftermath, the way he’d held onto Tommy, warm and trusting, the way he’d chosen Tommy for that, had let Tommy see what he needed and give it to him. Tommy doesn’t know what Lovett’s hoping for here, but the thing he can do is --

Tommy wets his lips, and just - gets it all out. 

“We never have to talk about, uh, any of this again,” he says. “I don’t want -- I don’t want to make anything weird. Just, while we’re here, I just think you should know -- I like you. Like that. In that way. And if you felt the same, then, that’s something we could do.”

Lovett bites the corner of his lip. When he speaks, his voice comes out soft, the way it hardly ever does, soft and trusting. “Yeah,” he says, and Tommy’s chest goes tight, amazed. “Yeah, Tommy. Okay.”

Tommy doesn’t know what to say, can’t find the words for this feeling, huge and tentative and soaring. “Lovett,” he says, throat rough, and leans forward, hesitant, wanting to touch. Lovett nods, and puts his hands on Lovett’s arms, feeling Lovett warm through his t-shirt. “You --” and Lovett says, “ _Yeah_ ,”, eyes flicking to Tommy’s mouth, again and again, quick, and Tommy -- Tommy kisses him.

God, but it’s good: Lovett opening his mouth at once, making a quiet sound of relief; Lovett, pressing forward into him, suddenly at ease in Tommy’s arms. He’s undeniably _Lovett_ about it, pushy and squirmy like he has every right to be there while his hands are tentative, on Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy kisses him, and kisses him, can’t get enough, until Lovett pulls back, out of breath and the tips of his ears a dark pink, and says, “Let’s -- can we --”

He’s nodding at Tommy’s room, the door still half-open.

“Yes,” Tommy says, and they stumble off the couch, over to Tommy’s room, Tommy kicking the door shut behind them out of instinct. 

It feels more real there, with Tommy’s turned-down bed taking up most of the space, Tommy’s laundry basket tipped on its side by the window, a paperback Tommy’s been reading for months in stolen minutes before bed open on its front on the pillows. This is where they stood a week ago, where Tommy held Lovett close against him until Lovett had what he needed. 

“Can I,” Tommy starts, turning back to Lovett, unsure, and Lovett is saying yes before Tommy has finished speaking, is walking into his space, kissing him again.

They topple onto the bed, Lovett bouncing gently against the mattress, Tommy bracing himself so he can hold his own weight. Lovett is warm and insistent underneath him, arching up so Tommy can feel the whole line of him, turning his head so Tommy can get at his throat, can feel Lovett’s end of day stubble rough against his mouth and the way Lovett’s breath hitches when Tommy focuses in on a soft spot just under his ear, uses teeth.

“Fucking -- are you gonna --” Lovett’s saying, breathless, hands encouraging, bunching fists in Tommy’s t-shirt on his back, “-- you said, you said you’d--”

“I’ve got you,” Tommy promises, and bites a little harder, pulls a grunt of approval out of Lovett. “I’ve got you, I’ll get you there. Trust me.”

Lovett groans harder at that, pushing up into Tommy more insistently, and Tommy pushes his own hips down, holds Lovett there, says, “Wait.”

“Oh fuck,” Lovett says, “oh fuck, that’s -- you got it, Tommy, anything you want.” It’s almost performative, the way he says it, but it can’t be anything but genuine with the way he sounds, teetering and raw.

Anything Tommy wants -- Tommy can’t see the end of all the things he wants. “I want -- can I eat you out?” he manages, because that’s the first thing he can think of, and once he’s said it, he can’t think about anything else. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lovett says, his grip on Tommy’s t-shirt tightening, “yeah, yeah, you can do that.”

“Good,” Tommy says, dizzy with permission, with his own arousal, and scoots down. “Hips up,” and Lovett pushes his hips up, gives Tommy the room to pull his sweats down and off.

Lovett’s ass is _right there_ when his legs are up, and Tommy kisses it open-mouthed over Lovett’s boxers, feeling the curve between Lovett’s ass and thigh warm and perfect under his mouth. “Good,” Tommy says again, and Lovett jerks underneath him. Tommy moves his hands, grips Lovett’s hips and keeps them on the bed. “Stay there,” he says. 

Lovett groans again. “Yeah, Tommy,” he says, “tell me what you want, fuck.”

“What I want,” Tommy says, “is for you to stay still and take it.” Lovett jerks again, clearly involuntary, and when he can’t move, when Tommy keeps him just where he is, he swears louder, breath coming ragged. “Good,” Tommy tells him, and presses his mouth to Lovett’s dick, mouths the bulge of it through Lovett’s damp boxers. Mostly, it tastes of fabric, but under that, Tommy can taste salt, need. “Hips up again,” he says, and drags Lovett’s underwear off too. 

When he’s done, Lovett is bare from the waist down and Tommy can see -- everything. The trail of dark hair thickening on its way down Lovett’s soft, pale belly; Lovett’s gorgeous thighs, lying a little open; Lovett’s dick, thicker than Tommy’s, flushed and hard, curving up to the left. 

“Fuck,” Tommy breathes, awed, and Lovett squirms under his gaze. 

“Are you gonna do something or just keep looking?” he says, and Tommy looks at the way Lovett is shifting on the bed, restless and aroused and holding his gaze, and says, trusting Lovett, running on a hunch, “You can take this too. Right?”

Lovett’s breath catches, and he fists his hands into the duvet. “Yeah, Tommy,” he says, fervent. “You can look. I can take it.”

Tommy abruptly doesn’t know if _he_ can. Lovett, bared and vulnerable, trusting him with this. With himself. With -- with what Lovett _wants_ , oh, fuck, and Tommy dips his head again, moves his hands to Lovett’s thighs to keep them apart and just -- just --

Lovett arches up. “ _Fuck_ ,” he gets out, “yes, fuck, keep --” and Tommy keeps, keeps his tongue moving, slow, shallow licks over Lovett’s hole. It’s making Lovett’s breath come fast, little shuddering gasps, squirming restlessly underneath him, 

He’s staying mostly where Tommy put him, but Tommy grabs his hips again. “Stay still,” he tells him, even though, god, he wants as much of this as he can have, Lovett wriggling and needy under his mouth, and Lovett goes still, panting.

“Keep going,” Lovett says, almost a plea, “Tommy, you have to --”

“I’ll do what I want,” Tommy says, heart thudding, his own dick aching between his legs, and gets to see Lovett shudder beautifully again, hips twisting in place.

“Fuck,” Lovett is saying, “oh _fuck_ , yeah, that’s --” and of course he’s like this in bed, of course he keeps running his mouth when someone takes him out of his own head, and thank fucking god he does. Tommy wants to listen to him forever, the way his voice cracks, goes high when Tommy keeps going, when Tommy licks harder, presses just slightly inside him. “ _Yes_ \--” and Tommy rubs his thumb there too, where Lovett is spit-wet and opening for him, and Lovett makes a sound like a sob.

This is -- it’s so good, heady, fucking incredible. Tommy loves this, always has, the up-close intimacy of eating someone out, the way they have to trust you. He tightens his hands, wants Lovett to feel as pinned as he needs. “You need it?” Tommy asks, hearing his own voice break, and hears the duvet shift as Lovett nods. “Tell me,” he says, and Lovett does sob, this time, beautiful and needy.

“I need -- I fucking need it,” Lovett manages, and there’s a tremor running through his thighs now, either side of Tommy’s head. Tommy’s neck is bent at a horrible angle, but he doesn’t care. He couldn’t care about anything right now, not when Lovett sounds like that, when Lovett’s whole body is begging like that. All he wants, all he needs, is to make Lovett feel as good as he fucking can.

“Stay still for me,” Tommy tells him, and takes a hand off Lovett’s hips, wraps it round Lovett’s straining cock instead. Lovett swears brokenly, shoves into Tommy’s touch. “Sorry,” he’s saying, immediately, “don’t -- don’t stop, please don’t,” and Tommy says, hoarse, desperate, “It’s okay, you’re good, you’re doing so good, just like that.”

Lovett’s cock is wet and hot in Tommy’s hand, and Lovett’s body is going taut, urgent, underneath him, and Tommy realises with a frantic thrill that Lovett is close, that’s he’s really fucking close. That Tommy did that to him, brought him to the edge.

He lowers his mouth again, works his tongue hard and insistent until Lovett is whining high and continuous, and then he jerks Lovett in earnest, tugging at Lovett’s dick until, until -- 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lovett sobs, “fuck, I’m--” and Tommy strokes him harder, licks him harder, tries to convey, _yes, yes, do it_ with every single part of him, and then Lovett is, really is, coming in spurts over Tommy’s hand, his own thighs, breath coming in little shivery pants.

Tommy keeps going, slower, until Lovett squirms like he’s over-sensitive, legs falling open again. Tommy pulls away, resting his head against Lovett’s sweaty thigh for a moment, breathing hard. “So good,” he manages, for Lovett. “Lovett, Jesus, that was -- you’re so fucking good.”

“Come -- come here,” Lovett says, still out of breath, voice tipping up at the end like a question, and Tommy hauls himself up, braces himself to lie over Lovett. “Yeah,” Lovett says, rough, and tugs him down until Tommy’s resting most of his weight on Lovett’s chest, lying between his legs, everything wet and messy between them. He can feel Lovett’s pulse thundering in his throat, and he can’t help it: his own hips jerk, shuddering and urgent. 

“Yeah,” Lovett mumbles, and he holds Tommy a little tighter. “Yeah, Tommy, c’mon. C’mon, do it,” and Tommy groans, fumbles his own sweats and his underwear down his thighs, clumsy and unwilling to move off of Lovett enough to make it easier, and thrusts again. Lovett is softening against their bellies but he urges Tommy on, lifts his legs to lock around the small of Tommy’s back. It’s so -- it’s _so_ good, hot and sweaty and intimate, and it’s all Tommy can do to pant into Lovett’s neck, keep moving his hips the way Lovett wants. There’s a coiling, desperate heat in his belly, and Lovett’s hands are insistent on his back.

“I’m gonna,” he manages, and Lovett groans like he’s the one about to come, tipping his head back so Tommy can tuck his face further into Lovett’s damp neck.

“Yes,” Lovett pants, stroking down Tommy’s back. “Please, do it, _please_ , please do it,” and Tommy loses it, shuddering all over, jerking through it, coming and coming and coming, all over them both.

When he can breathe easier, Lovett is still stroking his back, hands gentle but firm. Tommy blinks, blinks again, finds his voice. “Okay?” he manages, and feels Lovett nod.

Tommy rolls just off him, just to the side, tugging Lovett in against the curve of his body. He runs his hand up and down Lovett’s side, his arm, the sweaty line of his thighs, as far as he can reach, trying to touch as much of Lovett as he can. “So good,” Tommy whispers, and kisses Lovett’s back. “So good for me, Lovett, that was so good. You were so good.” Lovett shivers again, presses back into Tommy’s arms. Tommy tells him again, and again, soft in the stillness of the room. “So good, Lovett. You’re amazing.”

When Tommy’s heart rate slows down some, he manages to register that the room isn’t warm, that they should get under the covers. He tugs the duvet up, manages to get it mostly over them both. “Okay?” he whispers again.

“Yeah,” Lovett says, a little more audible this time, and Tommy throws an arm over his middle and gathers him in again, lets them lie there, breathing together. Lovett feels warm, relaxed and pliant against Tommy’s chest. They’re going to need cleaning off, both of them, but that’s for a few minutes time. Right now, Tommy just wants to hold Lovett close, know that he’s okay. That he liked it as much as Tommy did. That, right now, he’s getting what he needs.

“Was that,” he says, quietly, “was that --” and Lovett makes an amused noise, turns in his arms so they’re face to face. 

Tommy feels disheveled and messy, sweaty and pink, and Lovett looks much the same, his curls mussed, his lips bitten and red. 

“It was great, Tommy,” he says, and he’s smiling, familiar, the corner of his mouth twitching the way it does when he’s pleased, when he’s made someone laugh. “Top marks for checking in, you’re nailing it,” and he curls closer. “You don’t have to keep asking, honestly, talk about high maintenance.”

Tommy laughs, properly, and Lovett beams at him, tangling their legs together sweet and almost shy, and it’s that as much as what Lovett’s saying that makes something in Tommy’s chest loosen. 

“You can bring me some Diet Coke if you want,” Lovett says. His voice is still soft, but not as hazy, and he wriggles into Tommy’s chest again when Tommy strokes his back a little, encouraging him closer. “You know, if you, like, need to go all protective on me. I’ll allow it. I’ll indulge it. I’ll -- that’s okay by me.”

“That’s very good of you,” Tommy says, and Lovett makes a small, pleased noise, and pushes closer. “I’ll get right on that.”

“Mmm,” Lovett says, “in a minute.” He’s warm in Tommy’s arms, and when Lovett tucks his chin down, Tommy can bury his face in Lovett’s curls, press a kiss to the crown of his head. Lovett makes a another contented noise. “Not yet though.”

“Not yet,” Tommy promises, and holds him, and stays.

**Author's Note:**

> There is absolutely no non-con or dub-con in this fic but there is a moment where Tommy, with no information, worries whether some sex Lovett had with a random, offscreen, was.


End file.
